Chris Porter: A Man from Kansas (2019) - full transcript

Ladies and gentlemen,

please welcome Chris Porter!

What up, Denver?

Oh, shit!

It's good to be back in...

Yeah, it's fun.

I like it here, although
hipsters are starting

to ruin your food like everywhere else.

LA is the worst, man.

I just want breakfast.

You know what I'm saying?
I don't want a Radiohead album.



Are we just putting arugula
on everything now?

Is that how we denote food?

Can't get a cheeseburger in LA anymore.

You can go to In-N-Out all day.

But if you wanna sit down at a restaurant

with a cloth napkin and silverware,

it's never just a burger.

Every burger has a story.

Like, "Oh, our burger comes from a cow...

that was happily raised

by our owners, Barber Geoff,

which is spelled G-E-O-F-F.

And then we cover that
in Havarti cheese."

Havarti cheese is the handjob of cheeses!



It's a bullshit, tasteless cheese

that should start sucking a cheese dick.

I don't know what the fuck aioli is.

But you can keep it
off my goddamn burger.

Every restaurant in LA, they're like,

"Oh, we have a garlic aioli."

I'm like, "No, you have a gross
mayo, is what you have."

Aioli sounds like a word
you say when you wanna

say "asshole," but your grandma
is in the room.

"Is Uncle Steve coming?
Goddamn it.

Uncle Steve's... hey, Grandma.

Uncle Steve's a real aioli,
that guy."

I was born and raised
in the state of Kansas.

Yeah.

I'm a simple man with simple tastes.

I just want a burger.

I want a burger made from a cow

that was born and raised to be a burger.

That is why that cow existed,

was 'cause some rancher went,
"Fuck. I'm low on burger."

I don't want a cow with hopes and dreams.

I want a cow that knew the fucking deal.

I want a cow that walked
by the slaughterhouse

every day like, "Is today my day?

Can I go early?
I'm bored as fuck out here."

And I want cheese that
is 40 percent plastic.

I want a cheese, that when I shit it out,

I shit out a red Solo cup.

And I want Heinz ketchup.

I want ketchup made
by a giant corporation

that was built on making fucking ketchup.

Have you ever gone to someone's house

and they don't have Heinz?

And your immediate reaction is,
"You broke-ass sons of bitches.

You could have called.

You have my number.

I have four dollars.

I brag about it all the time.

I'm like, 'Look at me over here
breaking a five!'

I could have stopped
and gotten us all real ketchup.

But no, you had to let
all your friends know

that you've hit hard times with
your fucking Hunt's ketchup.

Your goddamn Mr. Pibb
of ketchups."

Mr. Pibb is a tool
of the government

to track people that own dungeons.

No normal person
is ordering Mr. Pibb on purpose.

Have you ever gone
to the store for your friends,

you're like, "I'm grabbing
sodas. Who wants one?"

Has anyone ever been like,
"Fucking Pibb me, bro!

Give me 21 ounces of the Mr.!"

They're fucking up pizza, man.

I went to my friend's party in LA.

He announces to the whole party,
"Pizza's here."

I said, "Fuck yeah.
What kind of pizza did you get?"

He said, "I got spinach,

veggie, and white pesto."

I grabbed him by the lapels.

And I said, "When the fuck
does the pizza get here?

'Cause you just named two salads
and a murder mystery."

I don't talk about politics
or religion onstage.

So y'all can loosen
your buttholes a little bit.

Religion and politics
are people's beliefs.

You're not gonna change
someone's belief structure

over dinner, so you're better
off just shutting the fuck up

about that shit, and then maybe
everyone just has a good time.

Your parents never came home
from a dinner party like,

"Children, gather round.
We have an announcement.

After a fun night at the Liebowitzes,

starting tomorrow, we're Jewish!
So...

clear your Saturdays!

Hope you like tiny hats.

I got bad news come December."

Here's a little word to the wise

in these politically charged times.

If you're at your friend's
party, you look around

and everyone's having a good time,

and you feel like that
is your opportunity

to bring up your political stances,

you need to do everyone else
at that party a favor,

and instead of bringing up your
bullshit political opinions,

just pull out your dick,

and shove it in the Jell-O.

Yeah. 'Cause you will get
the same reaction

that you would have gotten
had you brought up the election.

Everyone's gonna look at you and go,

"What the fuck are you doing?

We were all having fun.
Why are you doing this?"

But at least if you stick
your dick in the Jell-O,

your friends have a story for later.

"How was my weekend?
Pull up a chair,

I'm about to win this shit.

You know Gary from Marketing?

I was over at his place for dinner.

Middle of dinner, Steve gets up,

pulls out his dick,

which was erect...

he saunters over to the dessert table,

just shoves it in the Jell-O!

I don't know!
I don't know why he did it,

but he didn't bring up
the election this time,

so it was better."

And now I realize that there
are people in the room

that are like, "Hey, Chris.
I don't have a dick."

You know who you are.

That's fine, just...
you go over to the Jell-O,

you scissor that shit.

Yeah! Yeah, you do!

Put a glaze on it.

Stare at someone you don't like
while you're doing it.

"Look at me, Karen.

Fucking look at me.
Don't look at her."

I just think we need a break
from the news, man.

It's on all the time now.

You guys can come here and hang out

and not have hear about
that shit for a few minutes,

you're probably better off.

When I was a kid, the news
was on three times a day.

And normal people watched it
one of those times.

Now, the news is on all the time,

and my question for that is when
is shit supposed to happen?

That's why the news used to only
be on once in a while.

They waited for shit to happen.

They came on at noon and said,

"Here's the shit that's happened
so far today."

And then they came on again
at five and said,

"Remember the shit at noon?

Here's what's happened
since then."

Now the news is on all the time.

And there's not that much shit
going on every day.

But they never fucking admit it.

I would have so much more respect

for all the news channels
if every once in a while

you turned them on and they
were like, "Fucking nothing."

Yeah.

"There's not a goddamn thing
going on right now.

Turn on something else,
you fucking weirdos."

They got the news on everywhere
too. You can't escape it.

They got the news on
at airports, restaurants.

They got the news on at Jiffy Lube, man.

I don't need to watch
the news at Jiffy Lube.

I'm just waiting to see my air filter.

Right, they bring it out to you
like it's your abused child.

"Have you seen this?

What are we gonna
do about this?"

"You're gonna put it back
in the engine, Louis.

I got places to be.

You're taking the jiff
out of my lube here."

"Mr. Porter,
your filter's dirty."

"Yeah, I know, it's a filter.

That's what it does.

Let's get one thing straight, Jiffy Lube.

Only reason I'm here is 'cause my garage

does not have that giant hole
in the floor,

where I could get underneath
and do this shit myself."

Changing your oil is very simple.

You undo a bolt, the oil drains out,

'cause of gravity.

You put the bolt back in,
you change the filter,

you put new oil in.

Ta-da! That's it!

I didn't skip a step!

The only reason none of us do it
is 'cause our cars sit too low

and we're too fat to fit
underneath that son of a bitch.

But you should know
how to change your oil.

You don't have to do it. You
need to know how it gets done.

If for no other reason than eventually

you're gonna have a child.

That child's probably gonna come
with you to Jiffy Lube.

And they're gonna be like,
"What are they doing in there?"

And you're gonna need to have
a better answer than,

"They're fucking
costing me 38 dollars."

It astounds me what men my age
don't know how to do anymore.

Basic household man shit

has started to fall through the cracks,

and it's fucking embarrassing.

There is an app now called Takl, T-A-K-L.

And it's basically Uber for being a man.

You can have a man come over
to your house

and do man shit while your man
gets online

and downloads Imagine Dragons LPs.

You can have Takl come over,
clean your house

and mow your yard.
That shit I get.

Those are menial tasks,
and if you have the finances

to pay someone else to do it for you,

God bless you.

But you can also use Takl
to have a man come over

and hang a television on your wall.

And that's when I'm like,
"No, bro."

You man up and you fucking hang
a television.

It takes 20 minutes,
and you get to use a drill!

How are you not using a drill
whenever you can?

They are the best!
They are half-gun, half-penis!

They are the shit!

They are a handheld dick
that will burst through walls.

They are battery-operated Viagra.

Just...

I carry one around
during sporting events.

"Let's go!"
"Come on!"

You get to use a stud finder.

You get to make dumbass stud
finder jokes for 20 minutes.

"Babe, babe, babe.

Put it on me, see if it works.

I think the batteries are dead.
Let me see it. Let me see it.

Gotta put it on deep skin."

Whoo!

Remember when you were a kid

and you had to follow your dad
around and hold the flashlight

while he did man shit?

Yeah. Now it's your turn.

Man up, drill some goddamn holes.

"Yeah, but Chris,
what if I fuck it up?"

Well, then you fucking learn to spackle!

"Chris, my dad never taught me
how to do that shit."

Well, that sucks, but get on YouTube

and let YouTube be your dad.

There are a thousand videos on YouTube

where real men will show you
how to do real man shit.

There is even an entire channel of videos

where an incredibly attractive woman

will show you how to do real man shit.

Yeah. Yeah, you can learn
while you jerk it.

And it feels good.
It feels... it feels better

because you learned something.

It's less shame.

Not no shame, less.

I call it "lurking it," and...

I love doing shit like that
around the house.

I just feel like a man.
It makes me so confidant.

If I hang a TV,
somebody's getting fucked.

I'm just like, "Yeah! Look
at that TV just hanging there!

Was it hanging there before?
No, it was not.

Why is it hanging there now?
This motherfucker.

You're goddamn right.
Yeah, we're gonna fuck

and then we're gonna watch Frasier.

Let's do this."

Last time I hung a TV on my wall,

I got so confidant after it happened,

I looked basic logic
in the face and said,

"You're not welcome here."

I hung a TV, I took a step back,

I was admiring my work,

I had my "I did shit" boner going...

Then it came time to do
the minute adjustments.

Tilt it, make it perfect,
so when I lay in my bed,

it's right in my face.

But when I approached the mount,

I realized Amazon had sent me a mount

that only tilts up.

Fucking idiots.

Why do they even make those?

Why did that not come up in the reviews?

"Think it through, think it...
Fuck, I hung it upside down!

Son of a bitch!

Get the drill!

Get the drill!"

Ladies, I don't mean to exclude
you over the next few minutes.

I do need to speak
to the gentlemen directly.

But I promise it's to benefit
y'all in the long run.

Gentlemen, over the last year or so,

what I refer to as "the man brand"

has taken a bit of a hit.

There have been a lot of
douchebags in positions of power

that over the last decades,
have been using that power

to treat women incorrectly.

And now they've started
to receive their comeuppance,

as well they should.

But now it's on us, as the common man,

to start to rebuild the man brand

by being men again.

By building shit, fixing shit,

saying "Excuse me" and "Thank you,"

and treating women with respect.

And gentlemen, please,
for the love of God,

stop sending people pictures
of your dick.

Right?

I don't get it!

Even if they ask for 'em, don't send 'em!

Have some class!

Every time I've been asked
for a dick pic...

both times...

I have sent that girl a picture
of Richard Nixon

with a caption that says,
"It's tricky."

The only time I would even
consider sending a girl

a picture of my dick is if she
was like, "Chris,

I would come over and have sex
with you right now,

but I genuinely don't think
you have a penis."

That would be the only time.
I'd be like, "Fuck you, bitch!"

With like today's paper
laying next to it. Just...

But as a way to hit on a woman,
I don't understand it.

First off, no way that's your best angle.

Genitals are not attractive.

Especially ours.

There's a reason it goes inside.

Yeah. Someone gave you a dick
and said, "Go hide this.

Yeah, make a good living
so you can hide this."

Even the vagina,
as part of the female form,

it's immaculate.

But when you solo it out,

even other women are like, "I don't...

I don't know what that is. Um...

Someone drop a sammich?

Uh...

Five second rule."

I also realize I'm older.
I'm 39,

so I'm not really
in the dick pic generation.

Also, if you're my age or older
and you've sent someone

a picture of your dick, you need
to fucking talk to somebody.

You got some issues.

'Cause I remember a time, when
in order to send a dick pic,

you'd have to go somewhere and
get that shit developed first.

Yeah. And then you had time
to think shit through.

And then about the time your dick pic

came down the one hour window...

you're like, "No, this is fucking stupid.

This is stupid!"

It was my dick, and it scared
the living shit out of me

when I saw it.

I'm not sending that to anybody.
No, no, no.

I'll just send her the card.
It's fine.

I remember when dick pics were a prank.

Remember when disposable cameras
were the shit?

Before we had cameras on our phones,

you'd go to a reception,

everyone had a disposable camera.

By the end of the night,
you'd walk by an empty table

with one lone disposable camera on it,

look around, grab it,
shove it down your pants,

take a picture,
put it right back on the table.

Yeah.

Yeah, 'cause they'd never know
whose dick it was.

Unless you were the only
black dude at the party.

You know...
"Goddamn it, Jimmy."

Otherwise, it was four months
later before they even

got that shit developed.

Some poor old woman like,
"Oh, look, it's Tammy's wedding.

There's Tammy. There's my mom.
And... oh, my God, it's a dick!"

Like...

♪ Dicks from beyond

♪ Where did they come from?
Dicks from beyond ♪

And I get it, fellas,
girls are hard to talk to.

Especially the cute ones.
They're intimidating.

Some girls don't say the shit
that they mean.

Some girls play little games.

But you gotta play the game.

You can't just show 'em your dick.

Would you do that in public?

If you were just talking
to a girl at a bar,

and you just ran out of words,

"Uh... er, uh... so, uh...

My dick!" Would you do that?

No, you wouldn't. And you'd
get arrested if you did.

So why are you doing it via text?

Do you not understand
the liabilities of some woman

just having a picture
of your dick on her phone?

It's just on her camera roll
next to pictures

of her sister's kids,
and a trip to Hawaii.

And then there's your hog just chilling.

That's power over you, gentlemen.

That girl calls you in a week,
she's like,

"I need to borrow 50 bucks."
You're like, "Go fuck yourself."

She's like, "I have a picture
of your dick."

You're gonna be like, "Can I send you 30?

I feel like it's a 30 dollar
dick, if we're being honest."

If you send anyone a picture of anything,

of your own volition,
that's their picture.

They can do whatever
they want to with it,

there's not a goddamn thing
you can do about it.

So imagine you send a picture
of your dick to some girl,

she doesn't want it.

But she's a graphic designer
with 20 minutes to kill.

Right, she Photoshops your dick
into a pretty little kitten.

That shit goes viral on Instagram.

Everybody's like,
"Have you seen Kitty Dick?"

You're like, "No,
I haven't seen Kitty Dick."

You're like, "Oh, fuck!
That's my bathroom!"

"Why are you moving?"
"Fucking Kitty Dick.

It's a long story.
I don't wanna talk about it."

What if you got a weird dick?

What if you got a weird vein
you're not supposed to have?

I wouldn't know.

Me and my friends never compared dicks.

You send a picture of your dick
to some nurse,

she's like, "Fucking gr... Wait.

That's not right.
That's not right."

Now you're a thread on Reddit.

And I know there are dudes
in the room that are like,

"Dude, she'd tell me
if I had a weird dick."

The fuck she would.

She'd just send that picture
to every girl she knew,

fucking hashtag "weird dick."

You don't tell people about
their physical imperfections.

Ever!

Especially if you're just
hooking up with them.

Or if you're just hooking up
with them for the first time.

You're excited, you let a lot of shit go.

Why do you think ugly chicks
wear so much makeup?

They know by the time
you kiss that shit off,

you're probably back
at your place and odds are

you're not gonna tap out.

Don't play dumb with me.

I know 80 percent of the dudes
in this room

have made out with a shapeshifter.

You know exactly what I'm talking about.

You're making out with some girl,

you come up for air, you're
like, "Who the fuck are you?"

Here's a perfect example
of shit you let go

in the heat of the moment.

Nine years ago, I was making out
with a large-breasted woman

in Des Moines, Iowa.

Things escalated.

She allowed me to take
off her shirt, so I did.

When I removed her shirt, it revealed

that at some point
earlier in her lifetime,

she had been in what I would consider

a very significant knife fight.

And from what I could surmise
from the scars that I saw,

at best it was a draw.

Yeah. 'Cause this chick
got lit up.

Like, it wasn't one or two,
it was just like

stabby, stabby, stab...

Like, if I was her coach, I'd be like,

"We need to work on
your bobbing and your weaving.

'Cause... you're just
standing there."

But in the heat of the moment,
I didn't give two shits.

Took a look at her, I was like,
"Oh, fuck! You've been stabbed.

You're about to get stabbed
again. Let's do this."

But if that girl would
have sent me a picture

of her stabby-ass torso,

I'd have been like,
"No thanks, Julia Caesar.

I'm good on that.

You look good
in that Paul Pierce jersey."

Also, dudes, can we not
be psychos anymore?

That seems to be a trend
that's fucking stupid.

I saw a dude full-on

cry in a bar the other night.

Guys, we don't have emotions in public.

That's not what men do.

If you... like, I'm not saying don't cry.

I'm saying, if you're gonna cry,
fucking leave the bar.

We're trying to have
a good time in there.

Fucking leave!

That should leave...
Fucking go!

A bar is not a place for emotions.

Go to your car, turn on Bob Seger,

cry like a man.

Whoo!

This dude was... it was pretty
obvious what was going on.

Everyone in the bar saw it.

This dude had a crush on a chick,

she thought they were just friends,

she showed up with another dude,

he was hammered,
and he just went full psycho.

Just...

She had no clue.
She was like,

"I don't... I don't know
what's happening."

Dudes don't handle infatuation
well, ladies.

It's not an emotion we deal in often.

Men deal in three emotions
98 percent of their lives.

Men deal in happy, angry, or confused.

Yeah. And I know there are women
in here going, "Horny."

But horny is happy and angry
at the same time.

Yeah. We're happy
we got a boner.

We're angry we got nowhere to put it.

Otherwise, dudes deal in three emotions:

happy, angry, confused.

If you give us any other emotion,

our first instinct is to run it
through those three emotions.

Sadness? Watch your man watch
his team lose the big game.

He will fucking go through
all three emotions

in about nine seconds.

Big game's over, they lose.

"It was a good year.
It was a great year.

You know, I didn't think
we could get this far.

Fuck!

Fuck!

What happened?
What the fuck happened?

We were so good all year."

Women deal in all emotions all the time.

If they don't feel them
in their real life,

they watch shows with them in them.

Women will watch shows that
make them cry on purpose.

They look forward to that shit.

They call their friends to come...

"Hey, you wanna come over
and cry on Wednesday?"

"Fuck yeah, I do!"

You know what those shows are?

Those shows are emotional
CrossFit, is what they are.

Those are just women doing
emotional reps.

And they're doing sadness squats
and love burpees.

When women get crushes, they're fucking...

They're light years ahead of us.
They've seen all the movies.

Guys are blindsided, we're just like,

"I just think
about her all the time."

Women are just reading defense.
It's like,

"No, it's fine. It's just...
It's summer. It's fine."

Here's a good test, fellas,
for the difference

between infatuation and crazy.

Infatuation is when you think
about a girl a lot,

you wonder what she's doing,
kind of wish you were involved.

Crazy is when you go find out.

Here's the problem with the news
being on all the time.

Stupid people think they're smart now.

Stupid people used to know
they were stupid.

Remember back in the day,
you'd be talking about

some deep shit, you'd throw it
to your friend, Dave,

he'd be like, "I don't fucking
know. I'm fucking stupid."

No one says that shit anymore.

Now, stupid people think
that 'cause they watch the news

for six hours every day,
that now they're super smart.

But all they really did
was watch the same 15 minutes

37 goddamn times.

Yeah, and they're so fucking stupid,

they don't even get it.

They're deep into hour three
just fucking riveted. Just...

And when stupid people
think they're smart,

they start saying their
dumbass opinions in public.

It used to be, if you
had a fucked-up opinion,

at least you felt outnumbered enough

to shut the fuck up about it.

Remember you had your buddy Dave at work,

and Dave was kind of a weirdo.

You felt bad for Dave
'cause no one hung out with him.

So you take him out for drinks.

And after a few too many Pabsts...

Dave would start talking

about some bullshit conspiracy theory.

After 25 minutes, you're hearing
about how chemtrails

are gonna poison us all.

You're just like,
"Shut the fuck up, Dave!

This is why no one hangs out with you.

'Cause you're stupid, that's stupid,

now we're back
to 'you're stupid' again."

And Dave would tell you
to go fuck yourself.

And he'd go home
and he'd sleep that shit off.

No harm, no foul.

See, now Dave thinks he's smart.

So he goes home and he Googles that shit.

Google is not an answer engine.

It's a search engine.

It doesn't tell you
when you're being a dumbass.

It just connects you
with 80,000 other dumbasses

that think the same dumbass shit you do.

Do you know how fucking stupid
people can get on Google?

I wanted to find out,

so I started Googling the
dumbest shit I could think of.

I Googled "the sun...
is bullshit."

You know the sun?
The S-U-N.

The ball of fire in the sky
that says, "Hey.

It's daytime."

We've heard a lot of debate
in our lifetime.

No one to my knowledge

has debated the existence of the sun.

I thought we were all 100 percent...

on the sun.

Do you know what should have
happened when I Googled

"the sun is bullshit"?

Nothing. Nothing
should have fucking happened.

Nothing should have come up on my screen.

Some sort of alarm should have
gone off at Google headquarters.

And they should have choppered
authorities to my apartment.

And I should have had to explain
in triplicate

why the fuck I just Googled
"the sun is bullshit."

That's what the fuck
should have happened.

But do you know what happened?

A bunch of shit came up.
Yeah.

There are people in this world

that think this whole sun theory we have

is just a little too easy.

I don't believe that we as a nation

should ever round people up
due to their beliefs.

But should we ever start...

we need to start
with these windowlickers.

All right?

That's an easy vetting process.

"Hey, man. Sun real?" "Yeah."
"Move along.

Hey, man. Sun real?"
"I don't even know."

"Fucking get in the truck."

And then you drive the truck
to Arizona in August

and you fucking leave 'em.

And you come back three days
later and you go, "Hey.

What you think
about the sun now?"

People think the earth is flat again.

How many science classes
do you have to fail

before that even comes
into the realm of possibility

for your half-incestual ass?

Even the thought that Columbus

thought the earth was flat is incorrect.

Columbus knew damn well
the earth was round.

The Vikings had been over here
100 years earlier.

And they came back
and told everybody, "Man.

We just killed a bunch of people
by going 'achoo.'"

Do you really think the Queen of Spain

is gonna give her three best
ships to some lunatic

to fucking sail off
the edge of the planet?

They knew... have you never seen
a picture of earth from space?

What do you think,
we got the perfect angle

every fucking time?!

Have you never seen a lunar eclipse?

Has it ever just been
a line across the moon?

Have you ever talked to a sailor

that crossed the Atlantic?

Has he ever told you
about the big flip? No.

"Aye, three days into the journey,

we all go, 'Whee!'"

Everybody thinks they're
all kinds of smart now.

And you're not.
No one is.

That's impossible.

You can't be all kinds of smart.

You're one kind of smart...
two at best.

Ninety-eight percent
of the people in this room

have an area of expertise.

An area of life where you know
as much, if not more,

than anybody else in this room.

And it can be anything.
A computer system at your work,

landscaping, beautician, doctor, lawyer,

whatever the fuck it is.

Ninety-eight percent of us
have an area of expertise.

Two percent of us don't.

Two percent of us are complete dumbshits.

And that's fine.

We have to keep
Buffalo Wild Wings staffed.

You ever been to a B-Dubs?
Why does that shit take an hour?

Maybe cut out some flavors,
give these kids a chance.

No one's ordering
the mango habanero ever.

Oh, it's sweet but it burns my butthole?

Fuck yeah!
Give me six boneless.

Just as 98 percent of us
are some kind of smart,

100 percent of us have an area of life

where we don't know as much as we should.

Everyone is some kind of dumb.

Whether it's art, history,
physics, common sense,

whatever the fuck it is,
everybody's some kind of dumb.

Everyone throughout time has been.

The smartest people you can think of

have been some kind of stupid.

Einstein didn't know how to use a comb.

Remember that girl in high school

that would ace every test, get in her car

and get lost
in the parking lot? Yeah.

Everybody's some kind of dumb, man.

Whether you keep dropping
your phone in the toilet,

or whether you keep getting DUIs,

or whether you like Luke Bryan's music.

He is the worst,

and you're gonna get cancer
from listening to him.

♪ Rain make corn
Corn make biscuit ♪

"Oh, fuck, it's a tumor."

Luke Bryan is the Jerry Sandusky
of country music.

And all of his fans are Joe Paterno

watching him finger blast
an American institution.

I have told that joke
throughout the country

in preparation for this special.

And while it's angered many women,

not one of them have come up
to me after the show and said,

"You know, if you listen
to this one song,

I think it would
change your mind."

'Cause there... there fucking isn't one.

'Cause he's terrible.

Did you notice that
when Luke Bryan got famous,

Merle Haggard died?

Yeah.

That dude did cocaine and drank bourbon

for fucking 30 years and was fine.

Luke Bryan hit CMT, he was like,

"I'm fucking out.
I don't need this shit."

If you don't think everybody's
some kind of dumb,

I want you to go to Home Depot

and I want you to count
the handicapped spots

in the parking lot.

'Cause there's like a thousand of them.

And there's a reason.

Home Depot is where smart people
have to go

right after they found out just
how fucking stupid they can be.

And they've usually already
injured themselves

to a point where they have
a brand-new placard.

My father's the smartest man
I've ever met.

That man whoops my ass
in Jeopardyevery time.

And in the 39 years I've been alive,

I've watched him climb
from regional salesman

to chief executive officer.

Yeah.

He's also the same man
I watched electrocute himself

four times in one afternoon.

- Yeah. Not in a row either.
- Not like...

No, no. It was like, "burzap,"

"I have time to call
a professional and end this,"

"burzap,"

"My family's laughing at me,"

"burzap,"

"Now they're worried,"

"burzap," "Now they're inviting
people over to watch."

My mother asked my father
to replace four outlets

in the kitchen that had
become cracked and old.

My father, being a smart man,

went to the fuse box
and turned off what he felt

would be the appropriate breakers

to complete such a task.

Side note: my parents currently
live in the house

that my mother's father built,

and apparently Grandpa
was not a big labeler.

So the fuse box, as my dad puts it,

is just a fucked-up game
of "Guess Who?"

To my father's credit,
the first three outlets

were replaced without incident.

Number four got sticky.

I was not in the room

when my father was electrocuted
the first time.

But I heard it.

And I knew exactly what had happened.

I don't know if you've
ever heard 110 volts

run through a loved one.

But I can promise you
that the sound they make

when it happens is a sound that
you will only hear then,

or during an unexpected finger
in the butthole.

Those are the only two things
on planet earth

that will make a grown-ass man go...

So I heard that.

And then I heard my mom chuckle.

"Oh, honey.

I guess that outlet's
on a different breaker, huh?

Maybe we should go downstairs,
see which one that is."

To which my father said,

"Nah!

I'm almost done."

What the fuck does that mean?

What does that mean?

Do you think electricity gives a shit

how far into the job you've gotten?

I was there for the second one.
It was funny.

I laughed in his face.

You would have too.

My father was in the middle of a sentence

explaining why he didn't need
to turn off the breaker.

"Nah, son, all I have to..."

After the third one,

which ended with a "Shhhit!"...

I said, "Dad, I'm only in town
for the weekend.

I did not allot time
for your funeral. Um...

Why don't I do this?
Why don't I go downstairs,

turn off that big red switch
at the top of the box?

That'll cut off power
to the entire house.

And then you can go fix
the outlet, not die.

When you're done not dying,
I'll come back downstairs,

I'll turn the power back on.

And then I, and I alone,

will walk throughout the entire house,

fix all the clocks and the router,

'cause I know that's what you're
fucking worried about."

And I promise you if my dad
had died that day,

I'd have written that shit
on his tombstone.

"Here lies Scott Porter,

'cause he didn't wanna fuck
with the router."

And there'd be a USB port
in the tombstone

where you could charge your
phone off his charred remains.

I've put my dad through a lot.

Not as a child, I was a good kid.

But as an adult,
I put him through some paces.

I haven't lived in Kansas City
for over 13 years.

So when I come home,
it's a bit of an event.

Sometimes, my parents
have parties for us.

Sometimes, we just have parties
at my parents'

and don't fucking tell 'em.
Um...

But two Aprils ago,
I was home for a wedding.

Through a bunch of weird
experiences, I've become friends

with Justin Verlander, who's a
pitcher for the Houston Astros.

Yeah.

At the time, he was pitching
for the Detroit Tigers.

And they had a night off in Kansas City.

So Justin and I and a few
of his teammates

went out and had a few drinks.

While we were out,
Justin saw a young lady,

he goes, "I'm pretty sure
I know that girl.

I think she's an actress.

I think my fiancée and I
hung out with her last weekend.

I should probably go say hello."

I said, "Justin, we're in Kansas City.

There's no way that chick's an actress.

She probably works
at Cheesecake Factory."

He said, "No,
I think that's her."

Calls the waiter over, he goes,
"Who's that girl over there?"

Waiter says, "I don't know
who the girl is,

but everyone at that table's
with Mumford & Sons.

They're here playing
the Arena tomorrow night.

And they're here having dinner."

And Justin says, "Well,
send them a bottle on us."

Meaning him. Because...
I'm not paying for that shit.

Uh, first off,
not a big Mumford & Sons fan.

Second off, if I'm hanging out with you

and I know you've signed a
contract for over $100 million,

I'm not paying for shit.

Yeah, fuck you, dude.
You pay for shit,

it's not even on your register.

I pay for shit, I don't even get
to buy shoes next month.

And I'm gonna be fucking pissed.

So he sends them a bottle.
They come over to say thank you.

Turns out it's not Mumford & Sons.

It's just & Sons.

Mumford isn't there.
I don't know where he was.

I'm assuming he's back
at the hotel writing a song

that at some point goes...
♪ Oooh

So & Sons come over, start
talking to the Detroit Tigers.

I'm not really involved.
I kind of tune it all out.

But when I come back into focus,
& Sons are talking shit

to the Detroit Tigers about beer pong.

& Sons are like, "We'll fucking
whoop your ass

in some beer pong."

And the Detroit Tigers are like,
"We get paid very handsomely

to put balls places.

Fucking bring it."

And I said, "Hey, fellas.

My parents live about
eight minutes from here.

We could settle this."

The reason I said that
was 'cause I was fully aware

that both & Sons and the Detroit Tigers

have an entire floor at whatever
hotel they're staying at

to do whatever the fuck they wanna do.

So there was no reason
to come to my parents' house.

It was complete fake hospitality,

until they all turned around
and looked at me and said,

"Fuck yeah!
Let's go to your parents' house

and play beer pong!"

Yeah.

And that's when I went,
"Oh, shit!"

'Cause it is now two o'clock
on a Sunday night,

technically Monday morning.

My parents are not gypsies.
All right?

They have real jobs
with real responsibilities.

And that shit's about to start
in about six hours.

So I... what am I gonna do?

Like, I can't look at these guys
and be like, "You guys!

My parents." Right?

So I just said, "Fuck it,
let's roll the dice,

see what happens."

So we start to leave the bar.

As we do, my sister texted me
'cause she was also in town.

She said, "Hey, I'm out and about.

If you get home before I do,
will you walk my dog?"

And I texted back, "Unless
you're out and about

with the goddamn Dave Matthews Band,

you better get your fucking ass home,

'cause shit's about to go down
at Ma and Pa's house."

So at 2:30 on a Sunday night,

me, my sister, and about 12 dudes

roll into my parents' basement
and start throwing beer pong.

And let me tell you, shit got weird.

Like, weirder than
I've already described.

Like, my sister, who's 30,
ended up in her prom dress.

I don't know. I don't know
how that happened.

God bless her for being able
to fit in it.

But also, the fuck?

All right? So...

About 3:30, I decide to go out
and smoke some weed.

Ampersand Sons come with me.

But as it was the middle
of the baseball season,

the Detroit Tigers could not partake,

so they had to pretend like it
was the playoffs and watch.

Ooh!

So we come back in from smoking weed,

and my dad's downstairs and he's pissed.

Like, "What's up, Dad?"

And he's like, "What the fuck's
going on down here?"

I go, "Well, this is & Sons,

of Mumford & Sons.

And this is half
the Detroit Tigers' bullpen.

And we're playing beer pong.

And it was in that moment that I realized

my father was no longer sure
if he was actually awake.

You gotta look at it
from Dad's point of view.

He walks downstairs
in the middle of the night,

sees a bunch of weird dudes
that he kind of recognizes,

and my sister's in her prom dress.

Yeah. Shit's weird.

And Dad's confused as shit.
He's like, "I don't...

What... Is that
Justin Verlander?"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"Well, then I don't know what
the fuck's going on right now."

He walked upstairs, that was
the last I ever saw of him.

Not ever, just that night.
That would have been a weird...

That's a dark turn to that story.

That would have been funny
if he just was like,

"You know what? I'm just fucking
leaving the whole family

after this thing."

Whole next day,
I'm freaking the fuck out.

My parents have done a lot
for me over time.

I don't need to be pissing them
off over some bullshit.

So when my dad came home,
I was completely prepared

to take him out to dinner,
buy him some drinks,

make amends for the evening previous.

That was until my dad walked in the door

like he'd had the greatest
goddamn day of his life.

He walked in like... boom!
"What's up, everybody?

- How you doing? How you doing?
- All right!"

I go, "The fuck happened
to you today?"

And he just stopped, he goes,

"I fucking hated you
this morning."

He said, "I woke up on
about four hours sleep.

I cursed your name all the way to work.

But then I got to work,
and everyone started asking me

why I looked so tired and exhausted.

So I started bitching about
my son bringing home

the Detroit Tigers and Mumford & Sons

and playing beer pong all night.

And now I'm the coolest
motherfucker in the office."

Thank you very much, Denver.

God bless y'all.
See you next time.

Thank you.